The Twilight of the Admins
by Jay Richard
After hanging from a spear thrown into the devianTree for nine nights, I have obtained the knowledge of how the dAsphere shall come to pass. Gather around me as I nurse my wound and drink copious amounts of ale and I will tell you of what I have seen....
The Eternal Winter of the Forums
Two great warriors shall by chance meet on the plain of battle known as the Thumbshare Forum. They are champions of the same vein, the hit-and-fade barbarians called Smart Alecs, but they are solitary and fight for no one but themselves. A thumbnail of a Philosopher's illustration will bring the first salvo. One Smart Alec enjoys the piece in a cynical manner; the other Smart Alec seeks its prompt but humorous annihilation with a one-line Zinger of Doom, a +3 attack using 2d12.
A witticism will be fired, followed by a mighty retaliation. Lo, it will escalate and a maelstrom of Smart Alecs will blossom, growing in number b
CoffeeI'm still stuck in the old motions you taught me, the tiny movements and mannerisms that ground their way into the material of my grey matter with the sequential passing of days. They say a human forms a habit in twenty-one days. Whoever they are. I don't think they know this kind of "habit," this mechanic repetition that anchors me to this plane of existence, this autopilot safeguard. Whatever. I don't need them. I've become something of a misanthrope anyway.Coffee11 years ago in General More Like This
Like every other morning for the past month, I sit on the porch with two mugs of coffee and wait for you to come by and pick me up, and just like every other day I'm late to work. I don't know why Dave hasn't fired me yet; maybe it's pity? Maybe he's just waiting for the perfect, most spectacularly miserable day to come by, so he can pat me on the shoulder with a smile: "Hey, you're fired!"
Work passes in a mind-numbing blur of key-tapping, paper-shuffling and coffee trips. I expect you to walk in at any moment and apologize for
Making TimeMaking Time12 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Vacation with the Buxleys was unbearable. They were all about numbers. 197 miles to Scottsbluff. 24 minutes to the next Flying J. Barometric pressure is 29.1 and dropping. And they didn't just talk numbers; they brawled numbers. If any of the three Buxley machines - man, woman, or prepubescent - committed an error minute as a hundredth of a percent, it was the job of the other two to gang up on the mistaken party and chastise until all of their boxy foreheads were dewy with computational perspiration. This is why I hadn't said anything in 150 miles. 156, to be exact.
What started as a well-meant ploy by my mother to get me out of town for a week had now escalated into a hostage situation. I was perched in the backseat of a plasticky SUV with a strange family, afflicted with reading-in-the-car queasiness and a terminal no-rest-stop-for-300-miles bladder infection. My trip was spent staring absently out the window, pointedly avoiding any sort of dialogue with the Buxleys' ghastly, rabbit
ImagineImagine12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Imagine, if you can, the line,
That's separating "Yours" from "Mine."
The rose, the blood, the heart divine,
That's set in ice, cut crystalline.
Imagine, if you will, the pain,
That's separating "Loss" from "Gain."
Vampiric demon, she is lain,
Yet beauty, lovers, will remain.
Imagine, if you could, the guide,
That's separating "Loved" from "Lied."
And as you watched her, she still cried,
The kiss of death; her victim died.
Imagine, if you would, the speed,
That's separating "Haste" from "Heed."
The lies of life this girl must lead,
The blood that she must take to feed.
Imagine, if you may, all this:
From devil's love to demon's kiss.
A mortal life this girl will miss,
To have, instead, Vampiric bliss.
The Littlest PresidentThe Littlest President12 years ago in Socio-political More Like This
The Littlest President
At the age of eleven I was elected the 50th president of the United States of America. My analysts put my win down to youth (I was the youngest ever to run) and to the unfortunate late-October acne breakout of my incumbent rival, an eighth grader from Massachusetts. I have a stronger faith in the New Rules than do my analysts, who are always looking at polls and running them through sacred formula. I ascribe my presidency to the good sense of America, my hard work at Security School, and the stunning leadership of my handlers.
Once my presidency was officially announced, my face was given another coat of foundation and I was ushered up to a podium in front of a large crowd of my supporters. There was a crashing sea of applause. Most of my supporters were dumpy women in their thirties – just barely old enough to remember a time before we had the New Rules – these were my core demographic, although my handlers dutifully i
takes her lessontakes her lesson11 years ago in Open More Like This
The buildings were bowing as far as their lightning rods would allow them,
laying their pot plant leaves before my feet,
amidst the donkey's traffic grunt.
I had been given my messiah,
wedged between two glossy slips of cardboard.
I'm too shy with strangers to say no;
I gained faith thanks to the selfless persistence
of a ten year old.
Except when I closed my eyes
I saw only momentary multi-hued memories
on the back of my lids.
But that's okay, that's okay,
I had a smile on my face
and god in my hand.
I opened my eyes to:
eager profit prophecies dangled as neon halos,
perched to guide imprudent eyes
- since when were inanimate objects so attention-needy? –
and I had stumbled
But that's okay, that's okay,
because once I coughed it away
I was still there with my glossy book
burning like money in my pocket.
(Maybe when there are only overly ornamental churches
built as architectural feat
rather than practical rock foundations built for bodies rather than brains,